Owen. I wouldn’t doubt you; and that you know, Mabel, would be a great point, to have a friend secure in the regiment, if I thought of going.
Mabel. If!—Oh! what are you thinking of, Owen? What is it you’re talking of going? (Turning towards the door of her mother’s room suddenly.) Take care, but she’d wake and hear you, and she’d never sleep easy again.
Owen. And do you think so?
Mabel. Do I think so? Am not I sure of it? and you too, Owen, if you’d take time to think and feel.
Owen. Why there’s no doubt but it’s hard, when the mother has reared the son, for him to quit her as soon as he can go alone; but it is what I was thinking: it is only the militia, you know, and I’d not be going out of the three kingdoms ever at all; and I could be sending money home to my mother, like Johnny Reel did to his.
Mabel. Money is it? Then there’s no money you could send her—not the full of Lough Erne itself, in golden guineas, could make her amends for the loss of yourself, Owen, and you know that.
Mr. H. And I am not the man that would entice you to list, or gang with me, in contradiction to your duty at home, or your interest abroad: so (turning to MABEL) do not look on me as the tempter to evil, nor with distrust, as you do, kind sister as you are, and like my own Kate; but hear me coolly, and without prejudice, for it is his gude I wish.
Mabel. I am listening then, and I ask your pardon if I looked a doubt.
Mr. H. The gude mother must wish, above all things here below, the weal and advancement and the honour of her bairns; and she would not let the son be tied to her apron-strings, for any use or profit to herself, but ever wish him to do the best in life for his sel’. Is not this truth, gude friends—plain truth?
Mabel. It is then—I own that: truth and sense too.